Blue_SEAL Team Alpha Read online

  The woman stared at Wicked, something akin to hatred passing from her eyes. He took a deep breath and walked up to her, his posture tense.

  “Not your business, Kat.”

  Her eyes narrowed, and her mouth tightened. Her chin lifted and there was a cold smile on her face. “I’m surprised it’s not you he’s socking, Cross. Sorta like what happened on Team Six, isn’t it?”

  A murmur went through Alpha team. Shock made Blue momentarily forget about his altercation with Scarecrow. Wicked had been a top operator? One of the elite gunslingers? What the hell?

  Blue recognized guilt, and he certainly recognized anger. Both were stamped on Wicked like ink across his face.

  She came around him and used a paper towel to press against Blue’s lip. “You’re bleeding.”

  He stepped back. She had the kind of energy that was both bold and beautiful. He didn’t need a fucking hard-on right now, but he could feel the pressure building.

  She reached out her hand. “Kat Harrington.”

  He’d seen her in the gym, knew she was part of Team Six’s spook contingent. He didn’t take it, and she dropped it. “Ocean Beckett,” he said, not interested in getting involved with a spook, especially one that had so much baggage with Wicked. It was going to be his brother and fellow team member that Blue backed. He wondered if Wicked still felt the same about him. Had he lost respect for Blue? Did he think less of him as a man and warrior after seeing him like that during his rescue? “I don’t need your help.” The ache in him was hot and sharp.

  She tilted her head, her expressive green eyes speculative. He didn’t like her or her knowing look. “So what are you bonding over?”

  He just stared at her. She smiled that knowing female smile that pissed him off. Like she knew their guy-speak. Damn spooks.

  She shook her head. “You guys compete to test not only territory but alliances. Friendship preceded by combat is so macho, human, fundamental, and honored. In other words, you take your misplaced affection and knock each other in the jaw to prove there’s no affection. You must care for them deeply.”

  “Look, Kat, don’t you have someplace you need to be?” he said savagely, not recognizing himself in the mirror as his face contorted into an ugly mask of barely suppressed rage.

  She flipped her long red braid over her shoulder and turned away. “See you around, sailor.”

  Wicked watched her go, and for just a millisecond, Blue saw longing and something else. More shock. There was definitely a story to be told. Wicked’s fists clenched, and he looked at Blue, then immediately looked down.

  Without a word, Wicked followed after Scarecrow. Finally, the rest of the guys left after Blue turned away.

  He looked at Kat, who picked up some weights and with her beautifully honed body started to work them. When she was finished, she gave him a mocking salute and left the gym.

  He also left the gym, nursing his fat lip and his fat head. When he got home, he stood in the foyer for a full minute wishing he could connect with what happened and feeling nothing but numb.

  He went for the half bottle of rum on the kitchen counter, not even bothering with a glass.

  He winced when he took a sip and the alcohol stung the cut on his lip. The doorbell rang after he’d finished off the last of it. He rose a little unsteadily.

  When he opened the door, the look on Bowie “Ruckus” Cooper’s face sent his gut to his knees.

  Fuck, he was shit-faced in front of his commander. He went to attention, but Ruckus was already walking inside. “At ease. I need to speak with you, so just at ease.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  He went into the living room, and fuck if the damning empty rum bottle sat on the coffee table. Ruckus wouldn’t miss that.

  “Sit,” Ruckus barked.

  Blue folded down into a chair, and Ruckus sat down on the sofa. “Can I get you anything, sir?”

  “No. I didn’t come here for social hour, Mr. Beckett.”

  Oh, hell. He wasn’t calling him Blue, which was equivalent to his mom using all three of his given names.”

  “You know why I’m here?”

  Blue closed his eyes, the alcohol numbing his system. He licked his lips, wishing like hell he had another bottle around here somewhere.

  “We had a fight. It wasn’t a big deal.”

  “Yeah, you think so. I beg to differ, Mr. Beckett.”

  “Sir…”

  “Shut up and listen. I think you bamboozled that therapist with those pretty boy eyes and got her to sign the release much too soon.”

  Blue jerked upright and slid forward. “I did the time with her. She signed.”

  “Yeah, that may be the case, but you’re in trouble, the kind that isn’t going to work itself out. Post-traumatic Stress Disorder robs us of fine warriors. I’m not willing to sacrifice you to the navy because of a goddamned piece of paper. I’m still your commanding officer, and I damn well make the rules.”

  “Yes, sir,” Blue said firmly.

  “Good. Then you take orders from me. I’m relieving you of duty on the teams as of now.”

  He stared at his LT, the man who had always led them, supported them, got down into battle with them. Something hard and cold settled in the pit of Blue’s stomach. This was it. What he had feared the most. Ousted from the brotherhood, denied the teams. It stripped him as effectively as he’d been in the hands of the Kirikhan rebels, naked and exposed. He sat there without comment, realizing that no matter what, he couldn’t mouth off to this man. Not this man.

  Ruckus never wavered. He stared right back, the banked anger in his eyes for Blue to see.

  “Don’t take me off the team, sir. I’ll do better.” His voice broke. “I’ll go back to counseling. Please—”

  “The decision is made, and I didn’t make it lightly. You’re going to Panama City, Florida tomorrow at 0800. You’re going to teach a classroom of top-notch divers everything you know about mental toughness as the co-instructor.” His eyes were unwavering. LT always did the hard stuff the hard way. “In your downtime, you will decompress and find your balance again. I have every expectation you will. You will seek counseling and work through what happened to you. Am I clear, sailor?”

  “Yes, sir,” Blue said hollowly. “Copy that.”

  “I didn’t build this team to have it destroyed by some bitch and her sick husband in that godforsaken place. We’re stronger than that. This team is fractured, and I can’t in all good conscience watch it break apart completely. I will not lose one of the best corpsman I have ever had the pleasure to serve with, the kind of warrior I need and want on my team. But make no mistake, there will be no half-measures, or you won’t be back, Mr. Beckett. You got it?”

  “Yes, sir, Lieutenant Cooper. I got it loud and clear.”

  He rose, then leaned over and tapped the bottle’s top. “And, this?” He frowned, his eyes turning a flinty blue. “Not a good path to enlightenment.” His lips compressed. “I know, Ocean,” he said softly, his face full of unwanted memories. He made hard, direct eye contact with him. “From experience. SEALs don’t shirk their responsibilities no matter the cost.” He turned, then looked back. “Don’t let me down. Don’t let us down.” Then he pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket. “This is a name of a therapist you can see in Panama City. Do us proud. Hooyah.”

  After Ruckus left, he couldn’t sit there. Still slightly under the influence, he got his weapon and drove to the firing range and emptied magazine after magazine into paper targets, in his mind superimposing Boris’s and Natasha’s faces over the bull's-eyes. Each pull of the trigger, he vowed he wouldn’t think. He had come here determined not to, using distraction as a vent for the undercurrent of bitterness that kept trying to pull him under.

  He refused to acknowledge the sense of betrayal that was burning a hole in his gut. He’d broken their trust by hiding everything deep. They didn’t trust him and might as well have stabbed him in the back. His humiliation locked him up tight, and he was eff
ectively trapped.

  He emptied the chamber in quick succession, then set the gun down as the reality of what he was facing washed over him. Tipping his head back and hooking his hands on his hips, trying to ease the burning tension in his shoulders, he grappled with the truth. He was banished. Off Team Alpha…his guys, his damn job. Busted down to instructor.

  God, he hurt. From the inside out.

  Desperate for the familiar, desperate for enlightenment, he went home and strode down to the end of the hall. The door across from the kitchen was closed. He hadn’t been in there since just after he’d returned home.

  He touched the knob, and a weight pressed in on him. He tried to regulate his breathing, without result. He closed his eyes and turned the knob. Pushing the door open, he walked into his Zen retreat, the glass overlooking the outdoors. The altar with the small Buddha, the mat where he knelt and sat to meditate. The mounted blades on the wall and the art of Japan arranged in ways that pleased the eye. It was a room of peace.

  But there was no peace in him.

  He wasn’t that man anymore.

  There were only broken pieces with fragments missing. How could he become whole again when the puzzle was so jumbled and destroyed?

  He stood there wanting the room to fill the empty space inside him, but the scent of jasmine, sandalwood, citrus and ginger barely affected him. He clenched his fists, a twist of agony setting off a chain reaction in him. He made a soft, plaintive sound, hating himself for being this weak. The pain increased until it robbed him of breath. The rush of adrenaline spilled into his system, the volatile mix of guilt, disgust, shame and heartache so overwhelming he exploded. He moved and sent the altar crashing, the Buddha toppling over and landing on his side, the candles rolling away and smacking against the walls. He picked up his ritual teapot, threw it against the wall, and it exploded into shards, nicking his face. He did the same with the cups. He kicked at the mat, so pristine after his dedicated care, smearing the incense with an oily black taint across the white like a scar, and it careened into the space the altar had been. He pulled the art off the walls, the glass cracking and splintering around him. He grabbed the katana and threw it so that it embedded deep into the wall.

  His face contorted, and he gritted his teeth on a yell that came out as a growl. He was afraid to open his mouth and find himself unable to stop. He didn’t know how to reconcile himself to being no longer part of the teams. It was as if someone had cut out his heart. His chest heaving, his eyes filling, he collapsed inside, everything caving, his foundation gone. His eyes shifted to the mounted wakizashi on the wall, the shorter sword that the samurai carried, the one they used as a secondary sword in battle and to commit hara-kiri, ritual suicide.

  He reached forward and grabbed it. The destroyed room now matched what was inside him. He fell to his knees holding the sword and sat there poised and rigid, the sharpened blade crosswise across his abdomen. He gritted his teeth. One swipe and it would all be over.

  With a soft sob, he dropped it, his dishonor complete. He curled into himself and wept.

  * * *

  Joint Base Pearl Harbor Hickam Naval Base Hickam, Hawaii

  After PT and her daily swim at the pool, Charlie was in the swim locker working on maintenance for her gear when her phone beeped. She saw her unit was being called in to report for deployment. She stopped what she was doing and headed for their ready room. Once inside the team assembled, including her sea-daddy or swim buddy, Chief Petty Officer Steven Watkins. After they were seated, her commander, John Sedders started talking.

  “There’s been an incident off the Coast of Somalia. Pirates have gotten their hands on a warship and ambushed and sunk the USS Noah Jackson.” He pushed a button and a recording of the battle had been captured before the ship had gone down. When the feed cut off and it went to static, Charlie could only feel sadness at the lives that had been lost.

  Her gut clenched and the soft murmurs around the room told of everyone’s shock. “How did they accomplish that, sir?” Charlie asked. She knew what it took to sink one of the battleships and it was no easy task.

  “They took out the bridge with a surface weapon without any warning or provocation. I guess they wanted to send a message.”

  The navy is currently responding to that message, but we’re heading out to the Horn of Africa. Report to the tarmac in half an hour.”

  This was what being a navy diver was all about. A moment’s notice and it was off to a location located halfway around the globe. Back at the locker, she started to pack her gear, trying with all her might to keep her mind on the mission and deployment. But the discovery six months ago that she was failing herself haunted her. It was as if her whole life had been brought sharply into focus, and she was able to see things she had never seen before. It should have been enlightening, but it wasn’t. It was unsettling. And it intruded, mostly on her concentration. She would find herself standing and staring at something with her stomach in knots.

  “Hey, ace. You okay?” Steve asked with a concerned look on his face. “Get the lead out. We don’t have much time and I need my swim buddy.”

  She nodded and packed up the rest of her gear and soon found herself on a transport plane, winging over the ocean. It was nothing but a never-ending swath of blue beneath her. Most of her team was asleep, including Steve. She managed to keep a front during the day, but at night—nights were bad. All the self-doubts and uncertainties and anxieties would rise up and drive her from her bed. Old memories were surfacing now more than ever before—as well as disturbing memories that made her cold inside.

  She stared at the water below her, her nemesis and where she’d worked most of her adult life. Cold. She remembered the cold. And she remembered the terror. The sea had been relentless in taking her family from her. The wind and waves tossing her like so much flotsam.

  There it was, the memory of deploying the life raft and how she had sunk into the ocean as the bodies of her family floated above her. The image was chilling as their bodies were never recovered. In her mind, they drifted endlessly in the depths.

  “What’s going on, kid?”

  She was so far away, and the sound of his voice was so unexpected that Charlie jumped, her heart slamming into high gear as adrenaline shot through her. Closing her eyes, she clutched her hand against her chest, not quite able to disconnect from the memory—that frightening, terrifying memory.

  Steve caught her under the chin and forced her to look at him. He winced when he saw her face, then he sighed. She could tell he wanted to hug her, but he didn’t. His eyes…they were so warm and safe. She reached out and clasped him around the wrist and fought the feelings of abandonment, of fear, of shame, guilt and deep, black soul-sucking loss.

  “You want to talk about it?”

  Her teeth clamped against the well of unshed tears, she shook her head. He chucked her under the chin, brushing her cheek in a way that was so comforting…like a father would do to help his daughter in times like this. Her throat constricted. His kindness couldn’t have been more needed, more wrenching. He’d been there for her for a long time. It was as if he knew what kind of emotional trauma she was experiencing right then and was there to lift her out of the nightmare memory.

  “Why don’t you go to sleep?” She shook her head again, and he smiled. “How about some cards then, ace?”

  His warmth and physical closeness diffused the disturbing images, and something as mundane as cards seemed like a lifeline to pull her back.

  He’d been calling her ace since the first time he saw her in action. The nickname always made her feel like they had a relationship, but even with Steve, Charlie held herself in reserve.

  Charlie clung to the solidness of his presence to ground her. It had come out of nowhere, that recollection. Without warning, it was just there. Now, she felt as if she couldn’t pile all that stuff back into the place where she’d hidden it. Without the key, she would be lost.

  She’d had no idea until now how broken s
he was.

  “When you figure it out and you’re ready to talk, let me know, kid. I’m here.”

  She took the cards he dealt her, badly shaken by the shifting, disturbing images in her mind. She stared at them. Steve’s statement sending a reverberation of a shadowy, half-remembered fear through her. It was as though her whole foundation had abruptly crumbled away, and she was suddenly standing on shifting sand. Trust him. Could she? She couldn’t help calculating the cost in what she would lose if she did.

  “Do you have any fives?” he asked.

  She tried to quell the heart-racing panic. She had refused to deal with all her emotions after losing her family at sea. She’d thought she was ready to deal with it all when Sam had encouraged her to get tied, but her self-analysis failed her. She thought looking back after all this time would be manageable—looking back meant facing all that fear and hurt and shame. Charlie tried to will away the panic, but it wouldn’t let go. It was like a huge hand clutching her chest. But she’d sought out her memories, her loss because this time there was no escape. This time she was going to have to navigate treacherous waters before she could find her safe shore.

  * * *

  Ocean “Blue” Beckett’s Residence San Diego, California

  Scarecrow approached Blue’s door. He glanced at Wicked and he nodded. They couldn’t leave their buddy hanging after that situation at the gym yesterday. Scarecrow knocked, while Wicked peered into the garage, but there was no answer. Without thinking about it, he found Blue’s key on his chain and slipped it in the lock. Unlatching the door, he pushed it open and called out. “Hey, Blue, you home?”

  “His car is in the garage.”

  Scarecrow nodded. The house seemed empty to him. He’d done enough breaches to get a sense when it was occupied. The living room was empty except for the rum bottle on the table. His mouth tightened. Dammit, he should have come over here last night. “Check upstairs, O,” Scarecrow said, using one of his nicknames for Orion, Wicked’s first name. “See if he’s sleeping a drunk off.”